January 30, 2015

Some Januarys are cold. This one was more like February. I found this photo of Mom and the Old Sea. Taken one super warm January not so long ago. I like to remember her like this.

I know she was thinking of Dad. Dad died the January before. Her hair was as white as the crest of the waves. Like the clouds if there had been any.

And I am caught in the white of winter. White and not so white. Which is the way it happens. And caught in how we honor days.

January was deeper this year. There was cold that moved through me in a different way. There was young death. There were old sadnesses. There were way too many new questions. There was the noticing of the whitening of the man's hair. And mine.